I just recently moved, and carting around these boxes of clothes from one house to another is exhausting, exhausting enough to contemplate, "Bitch, do you really need all this shit? Get real."
And I could give the Pillsbury Doughboy a run for his money on some of these gems (see above), but I'm an artist, and I'm doing this for you. I'm not happy with my body, but I'm not happy with anything (remember I'm an artist) and my self critical dialogue of doubt is running at full speed on a full time work schedule-- so please bear with me.
It's funny how as a woman I love myself more when I treat myself well, and hate myself like a Nazi when I do the opposite. Each poses an inevitable cycle of gain or loss that is nearly impossible to change no matter what the occasion. Sometimes I'm told I'm a beautiful person yet don't feel it when I just ate two packs of gummy bears and have Limbaugh style gas. Sometimes I look like I got hit by a bus, puffy eyes, bloated gut, yet I feel alive and open and maybe had a great conversation with my mom that morning. So fuck it all. So much of our self worth is projected onto us by our beauty, most directly by our weight, and quite frankly, I'm sick of it.
I stick my fingers down my throat every so often when I binge like a hog. It's a disgusting, degrading habit and I say that not to belittle the sentiment, I say it for the ladies who look at me and think I'm some sort of superhuman, like it comes easy-- like those celebrities who say they eat Big Macs and whatever they want and are skinny and stupid and liars and stupid.
It's not easy. Sometimes it's hell. Sometimes it's ok. But it's never great. The struggle is just that; struggle. But you don't give up, you pick yourself up and you go on to live another day. After all, it's JUST a cookie, even though some days that cookie may make you want to throw yourself off of a cliff.
And there's no one I can blame. Not my mother and her own questionable eating habits. Not my exboyfriends for not loving me enough. It's not even my fault, simply my work to do. So my pants don't fit. Ok. Lets breathe and take a minute before ripping my own head off. My pants being snug doesn't mean I'm not a good person. It doesn't mean I'm not a great sister or daughter or friend. Doesn't mean I'm not working hard. It just means there's more road to walk, more to learn, another mountain to summit. Which is EXCITING, not depressing. Bring on the adventure.
Bring it on size zero pants, because struggle isn't about fitting into them, that day will probably never come. Victory comes with realizing I'm good enough without them. (And maybe I should stop drinking)